


Sanguis Draconis

by riventhorn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legend held that dragons' blood ran through the veins of Artorius Caputo Draccus, son of Caesar and Imperator Destinatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanguis Draconis

**Author's Note:**

> For amphigoury, who granted me the opportunity to write a story to go along with her wonderful artwork, which can also be viewed [here](http://amphigoury.livejournal.com/41456.html). I seem to have ended up shamelessly indulging my love of pet names and magical bonding.

The young gladiator in the cell stood quietly under his gaze, solemn enough except for a betraying gleam in his eyes that hinted at laughter.

Artorius Caputo Draccus, son of Caesar and Imperator Destinatus, straightened his shoulders and glared. 

“They say that the gods speak to you. Is this true?” he demanded.

And now the man smiled, a slow smile that rolled over his mouth and curved it just the slightest bit upwards. He leaned against the bars. “ _My_ gods may speak to me. I do not think that I have ever heard anything from yours.”

[](http://s1181.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/media/roman_final_zps15947a0e.jpg.html)

The words were flippant—shockingly so, and Artorius heard his second-in-command, Leonidus, waiting a few steps down the passageway, drawn in a sharp breath. 

“You cannot speak to me in such a manner.” Artorius tightened his grip on his _vitis_. “One word from me, and you could be fed to the lions on the morrow. Now answer my question properly, slave.”

“My name,” the man said quietly, “is Emrys. I may be a slave, but I have not lost my name.”

“Your name is Ambrosius. Your master named you so, and I shall call you as such, not these uncouth syllables of your barbarous tongue.” 

“I am Emrys,” the man repeated.

Artorius drew closer to the bars, raking his eyes over this slave who dared to be so defiant. He wore a simple tunic, and Artorius could see bruises beginning to darken the pale skin, courtesy of his last fight in the arena when he had taken down a _retiarius_ , evading the grasping net and striking trident. Emrys—his mind lingered over the curious sound of that name—had not killed his opponent, though. No, he never killed, even when the crowd shouted for blood. Instead he swept the arena with a proud gaze and inevitably, the cries turned from death to life, Romans shamed into mercy by the scorn of a British slave. 

Artorius had witnessed the last fight, although he had heard of Emrys before from his sister, Marca, who frequented the arena. “He is favored by the gods,” she had said, “even though he is a barbarian.”

He had also heard of Emrys from other quarters—from the legions who had been in Britannia, putting down the rebellion there. They carried darker rumors, telling of mystical powers and eyes that glowed golden. Artorius did not put much stock in those rumors. If Emrys truly had such abilities, how had he come to be taken as a slave and sold to bleed out his life as a gladiator for the amusement of the crowds? 

“I came here today,” Artorius began, “to congratulate you on your prowess in the arena. And yet you mock me. Have you no honor or do you not know to whom you speak?”

“I know you, Draccus,” Emrys replied quietly. “Oh yes, I know you.” 

This time, his smile made Artorius’s skin pebble, as though a cold wind had blown through the fetid passageway. Suddenly uncertain, he hesitated. 

“You speak of honor,” Emrys continued, and his voice had gone flat and cold, “but where was the honor in destroying our sacred groves? In ravishing our women?”

“As I have heard the reports,” Artorius returned stiffly, “it was your people who began the killing.” Indeed, it was his uncle, Agricola, appointed governor of Britannia, who had sent word of the uprising—and its swift suppression. Agricola was an able administrator, and he had assured Caesar that the Romans had given no cause for unhappiness among their new subjects. No, it had been the druids, inciting their people into a foolish war. 

Emrys regarded him silently for a moment. “And would you tolerate a tyrant’s yoke, were our positions reversed?”

“We are not tyrants.”

Emrys laughed, a bitter sound. “You speak of what you know nothing of, little dragon. Safe here in your mighty city.”

Artorius flushed. “Rome brings peace and prosperity to all within her borders,” he said after a moment. 

Emrys turned away from him and went to sit on a bench along the wall. 

The insult brought all of Artorius’s indignation rushing back. “I did not dismiss you, slave,” he snapped. 

Emrys just looked at him, that amused glint returning to his eye. 

Artorius could have him whipped, sent to the salt mines, killed. This man was only a slave, a barbarian. 

Abruptly, Artorius turned and strode away, Leonidus hastening to follow him. He did not need to respond to the petty insults of a slave, he told himself. He was secure enough in his authority that he was above such things. Let this Emrys rot there in the cells or die in the arena or even live to scrabble out an existence as a freedman on some wretched farm. It was no matter to him. 

*

And yet, he found that the memory of their conversation refused to leave him. Nor could he forget the way Emrys had held himself—proudly, a hidden strength in his thin yet well-muscled body. 

It stung his own pride that he had let Emrys get away with speaking so disrespectfully. It shamed him, imagining what his father would have said had he beheld the exchange. He should really see Emrys again and impress upon him the august nature of his position. He would be emperor one day, after all. Emrys should get on his knees before him.

There was no chance of seeing Emrys in the arena any time soon, of course. The circus master would not risk one of his most popular and successful gladiators on any less than the games held in honor of the gods’ days or to celebrate Caesar’s triumphs. And so he ordered Leonidus to bring Emrys to him, to the villa he kept in the hills outside of Rome. 

“And make sure he is bathed beforehand,” he added, remembering the stinking air of the cells. 

When Emrys appeared, escorted by two guards, Artorius was pleased to see that he looked much less certain of himself than at their last meeting. His hair was still damp, curling around his ears. With all the dirt and blood scrubbed away, he seemed younger and gawkier. Still, he jerked his chin up when he caught sight of Artorius. 

“Are you going to answer my questions this time?” Artorius demanded. “Or will I have to whip them out of you?”

“I do not think you would be so cruel,” Emrys replied, but his voice shook slightly.

Artorius felt a pang of guilt. He did not want fear, only respect. “I will not whip you,” he said, trying to gentle his voice. “I only want to come to know you better.” 

Emrys relaxed a trifle, but his shoulders were still tense. “Then I will answer that yes, I can hear my gods.”

“And have they indeed granted you a great power?”

Emrys nodded.

“Then why are you here?” Artorius asked, puzzled. “If you have such power, surely you could have overwhelmed the men who captured you. Surely you could escape this very moment.”

A sudden weariness flooded Emrys’s face, and he swayed on his feet. “I took an oath,” he said faintly. “Never to use my power to harm another. And besides, it was foretold that—” He stopped abruptly, pressing his lips together, and giving Artorius a glance that was somehow both angry and hopeful at the same time.

“Then, in the arena, you do not use this power?”

“No.”

Artorius was quiet a moment. “You are either very brave,” he said at last, “or an idiot.”

It startled a laugh from Emrys. 

“Come,” Artorius said, gesturing to the couch beside him. “You will tell me of this land of yours, this Britannia.”

So Emrys sat and told him stories of cold winters and howling seas and moonlit hunts. Artorius watched the emotions ripple across his face—happiness in the memories, then sadness as he recalled that his home was thousands of leagues away. It did not sound like the place that his uncle had written about. In his uncle’s reports, all was mean and squalid and muddy, hardly a land fit for civilized beings. But Emrys spoke of the bannocks his mother had made, of the splendor of the stallions from the Iceni stables, and fine war spears, bound with heron feathers. 

At a pause—for Emrys had no trouble chattering away like a squirrel—he called for some plump dormice and figs and gave Emrys a generous cupful of wine. “You must grow thirsty, telling such tales.” 

Emrys drank the wine, and his cheeks reddened. “Then speak in your turn.” He pointed to the floor in front of them, at the scaled and winged beast done in scarlet and yellow tiles. “Tell me if the stories are true, and if there is more to your name than whim, Draccus.”

Emrys commanded him as though Artorius were the slave and he the master. But it amused Artorius, for now, and so he smiled—a sharp smile, full of teeth—and said, “The father of my father’s father, orphaned when the barbarians fell upon the city, like to die but saved by a dragon that descended from Olympus and raised him among her own brood—is that the story you mean?”

Emrys swallowed and nodded, his eyes fixed on Artorius’s face.

“It is true. I have touched one of the scales from the beast myself. And here—” He pulled up the edge of his tunic, exposing his right thigh and the birthmark shaped like a dragon-fang. “My father bears the same mark, and his father before him.”

The breath rushed out of Emrys, and his head drooped. But then his eyes flared with gold, and he stood up, all of a sudden, like a gale. Artorius, startled, jerked upright, and the guards drew their swords. 

“I will serve no man,” Emrys hissed. “I am not bound to fate or prophecy! I will never serve you, Draccus, who came among my people with blood and iron!” 

“Hold him!” Artorius shouted to the guards, and they started forward, but Emrys threw up his hand and flung them backwards like twigs, caught in a river and tossed upon the shore. And then he advanced on Artorius. Had Emrys’s earlier words about never harming a man with his power been a lie? They had not sounded so, and yet Artorius could not deny that he was frightened by Emrys’s golden eyes and the ease with which he had dispatched the guards. 

He scrambled backwards, snatching up a knife from the table and holding it before him. A gesture from Emrys ripped it away, sending it skittering over the tile.

“Kneel,” Emrys said in a deep, guttural tone, his eyes still hazy with gold.

To his horror, Artorius felt his knees buckling, independent of his own will. He tried to resist but could not help crashing down to the floor, wincing at the impact. 

“Stop this,” he cried, staring up at Emrys, fighting against his own body, trying to stand. “I command you to stop!”

“Her name was Freya.” Emrys reached out and gripped Artorius’s hair, forcing his head back. “That was her name. And your kind butchered her, like an animal.”

Artorius struggled against his hold. “You told me you swore an oath,” he managed to say past the fear that clogged his throat. “You swore an oath never to harm another with your power.” He drew a frantic breath. “Please, Emrys. Listen to me.”

A moment longer, and then the light in Emrys’s eyes blinked out. He released Artorius, his face pale and distraught. Stumbling backwards, he fell to the ground. 

Relief flooded Artorius as he found that he could stand once more, that his body was no longer possessed by Emrys’s will. Springing up, he grabbed one of the swords from the unconscious guards. Standing over Emrys, who remained huddled on the ground, he held it to his throat. 

“ _And he will break all bonds that hold you and craft you anew in the forge of his will,_ ” Emrys whispered.

Artorius did not heed the words, trying to calm the pounding of his heart and his ragged breaths. When he thought his voice steady enough, he said, “I am sorry about your people. I am sorry you lost those that you loved. But I would still be within my rights to give you your death.”

Emrys did not speak or move, only waited, head bowed, the tip of Artorius’s sword pressing against his skin. 

Artorius kept it there a moment longer and then stepped back, calling for more guards to come and take Emrys back to his cell. Emrys put up no resistance, nor did he look at Artorius as they dragged him out. 

*

Emrys’s golden eyes filled his dreams that night, and he woke early, sweaty and shaken. Part of him never wanted to see Emrys again. To be so helpless—unable to do anything but what Emrys commanded…His stomach roiled at the memory, and he huddled under his furs, like a scared boy. 

But there was another part of him that could only remember the feeling of Emrys’s fingers in his hair and the sound of Emrys’s laugh. 

Jupiter, what had been done to him?

*

He tried to forget it. He kept as active as possible during the day—inspecting the legions, training with Leonidus, driving his chariot—so that at night he would be too exhausted to dream. But the dreams came anyway. He could not forget the way Emrys’s voice had filled him. It seemed to have woken some hidden part of him, and now that part was restless and unsatisfied. 

He prayed to Jupiter and made a sacrifice, but the power of Emrys’s gods must be strong indeed, for the dreams only seemed to get worse. In them, he stood on the edge of a precipice, aware of Emrys standing behind him. He knew that if Emrys told him to jump, he would do so. 

At last, he gave in and went to see Emrys. Two hours past dawn found him in the gladiators’ cells, wrapped in a woolen cloak. He wore his sword, but he knew it would be useless if Emrys should overpower him again.

Emrys was slumped on a pallet in the corner, and he did not rise when Artorius appeared, only looked up briefly and then returned to contemplating the dirty stones that hemmed him in. He did not appear to be sleeping well, either, judging by the dark smudges under his eyes and the rough stubble on his jaw. 

Artorius gathered his courage and stepped closer. He put a tentative hand on the bars. “I have come to ask—to ask what you did to me. I—I could not move except as you told me. I could scarcely _breathe_ …” He fell silent, the remembered terror flooding him again.

Emrys’s gaze sharpened. “You are not here to kill me, then? I have expected it, these last days.”

“I would never drag out a man’s death. If I had been going to kill you, I would have done it when I had my sword at your throat.” He gripped the bars a little tighter. “Now tell me what you _did_.”

“Forgive me,” Emrys said quietly. “I did not intend to harm you. It is only that I grow tired of the shackles that bind me to this path.” He sighed and continued, “The blood of dragons runs in your veins. And I am a master of dragons. You had no choice but to bend to my command.”

“Then take the spell away! Make it stop. I have been dreaming—” He cut himself off, not wanting to bare himself to Emrys. 

Emrys tilted his head. “It is not a spell. As I said, it is your blood that allowed me to take control.”

This was not to be borne. He shuddered at the thought of what his father would say if he found out that a barbarian could bring Artorius to his knees at a word. “You will swear to me _never_ to do it again,” he told Emrys, his voice hoarse with fear. 

A low fire kindled in Emrys’s eyes, like banked coals. But then he blinked, and the glow faded. “I swear it,” he said, and rising to his feet, he approached, so quickly that Artorius had only just started to draw back when Emrys was touching his hand. “You do not need to fear me, little dragon.”

“Do not call me that,” Artorius muttered, fearing that a blush of embarrassment had crossed his face. 

Emrys smiled, and this time the light in his eyes was like the blue sweep of sky after a rainstorm. 

*

The first time he had seen Emrys fight, he had watched with a detached interest. But now—Artorius swallowed and twisted his hands in the folds of his toga. 

Marca put a hand on his arm. “What ails you, dear brother? Have you grown soft?”

“I am perfectly well,” he replied, forcing his hands to unclench. He could not tear his eyes from the gate where the gladiators would emerge. Emrys would be among them, for it was the _Ludi Appollinares_ , held each year in honor of Apollo. All the best gladiators would be showcased, and the crowd was wild for it, already shouting the names of their favorites.

For the hundredth time, Artorius asked himself why he was so worried about Emrys’s fate. He should be glad to see Emrys fall, for then Emrys’s strange power could never entrap him again. Instead, he felt that if Emrys died, part of him would die as well—the part that Emrys had awakened. 

He had not been to see Emrys again since that morning in the cells, but sometimes, late at night when he could see the stars out his window, he thought he heard Emrys calling for him. It brought him from his bed, out into the garden, and he stood there shivering and listening. He wondered if this was how Odysseus had felt when he heard the sirens sing and longed to go to them, even though it would mean his death. 

When the gladiators marched out of the gate, he spotted Emrys immediately, sword in hand, the thick, padded shield on his left arm. They saluted Caesar, seated a little to the left of Artorius and Marca. But Emrys’s gaze fixed immediately on Artorius, and he watched him, solemn and quiet, until the guards pushed him into position for his fight. 

He was to be facing the _murmilo_ in his grilled helmet—a powerful man, thick and broad. Emrys looked so slight before him. 

Their blades clashed, and Artorius wanted to look away but could not. He was high up above the sands, and the two fighters looked small, like a child’s toys. Still, he could see the slash of red that appeared on Emrys’s chest when the _murmilo_ scored a hit. His own blood pounded in his veins.

They fought on and on, and Emrys was growing weaker. _You must strike now!_ Artorius wanted to shout at him. _Aim for the left side. He leaves it unprotected._

Almost as though he had heard him, Emrys did indeed strike. A quick flurry of blows.

But the _murmilo_ fought back, sweeping Emrys’s legs out from under him. He crashed down into the sand. Swiftly, he rolled aside, avoiding the _murmilo_ ’s sword, and in the next second he had thrust upward, taking the man in his leg. 

The _murmilo_ fell, and Emrys leapt up, knocking his sword away and then pointing his own blade at the other gladiator’s chest. He straightened his shoulders, holding himself upright even though blood dripped down his chest, and stared at the crowd. 

Artorius could practically feel the force of his will, and he held out his hand and raised his thumb. It was life. Of course it was life. 

Scarcely had Emrys cast away his sword then he sank to one knee, head bowed. Guards and a surgeon immediately rushed out, taking him back to the cells to be tended. Artorius stood up, ignoring Marca’s questioning cry, and hurried to find Emrys’s owner.

Publius Piso, who ran the finest _ludus_ in Rome, was only too happy to curry imperial favor and immediately agreed to Artorius’s suggestion. 

“The country air will be far better for Em—for Ambrosius than the dampness below,” Artorius said. “And my own personal surgeon is quite skilled. I should hate to see such courage lost due to a minor wound.” This was true, but it was also true that he wanted to look on Emrys’s face again and listen to his curiously accented Latin and perhaps touch him. He could still feel Emrys’s fingers upon his skin, cool and almost possessive. 

Publius Piso bowed and murmured that he was too kind, too generous, and the arrangements to send Emrys to his villa would be made immediately.

Artorius made himself return to watch the rest of the games, otherwise he would have to endure Marca’s questioning, and he did not wish to discuss Emrys with anyone. Not until he could work out his own complicated feelings about the man.

*

When he finally managed to return to his villa, he found his surgeon just finishing stitching up Emrys’s wound. Emrys looked woozy from the pain and the effects of a draught.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked Artorius, struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“So you did not die in those wretched cells,” Artorius told him, and once the surgeon had packed his instruments and left, he added, “And to talk to you. To come to know you and your strange land better.”

“Why?” Emrys asked again. “I do not understand.”

“If we are to prevent another uprising, I must know the customs of your people. I must learn how to govern them well and bring peace to the land.” True, governance of Britannia still rested in Agricola’s hands, but he was already forming the arguments that would convince Caesar to send him in his uncle’s place. 

Emrys blinked at him. and then he smiled. Artorius found that Emrys’s smiles were some of the most delightful things he had come across in this world. But before he could speak further, the drugs took hold, and Emrys’s eyes fluttered shut. Looking at his sleeping form, Artorius felt some of his fear leave him, replaced by a strange, wondering warmth. 

*

Over the next days, while Emrys healed, Artorius sat with him and they spoke of things large and small, of Britannia and emperors, of the places they had seen, of people they had known.

“Who taught you Latin?” Artorius asked one evening, and Emrys smiled. 

“An old surgeon named Gaius. He had come to our lands with the legions, and when he retired from duty, he decided to stay and settled near my tribe. We were grateful to have someone so skilled in medicine nearby, and I spent many hours with him. And of course, I often heard Latin spoken, for the fort and town at Venta Icenorum was only half-a-day’s ride away.”

Artorius fiddled with the strap of his sandal. “You wish to return there, to your home.”

“Yes.” Emrys sighed. “But it would not be the same. So many died in the fighting. And the legionaries salted the fields, dooming them to a starving winter.”

 _It will be different, when I am in command,_ Artorius said to himself. He could not speak the words aloud, for it would be too close to treason. Surely he would be able to make his father see reason and agree to send him to the frontier. He would take Emrys with him. And then perhaps—perhaps Emrys would follow him home, when it was time.

Emrys was saying softly, “Yes, I should like to see my hills again. But fate has laid another path ahead of me, I fear.” 

“I have often heard you speak of prophecy and destiny. And it cannot be denied that the gods know a man’s fate, down to the hour of his death. Have your gods spoken to you of these matters?”

Emrys did not reply at once, but at last he said, “At my birth, the druids read my fate in the stars. And they said: _Out of the West, stained with blood, you will cross the sea and find the son of dragons. And he will break all bonds that hold you and craft you anew in the forge of his will. And that fire will consume you, for you will serve him, and he will be both your beginning and your end._ ”

Silence fell, and Artorius could hear the sound of water splashing in the fountain in the courtyard. At last, Emrys spoke again. 

“This fate has dogged my steps, all the years of my life. And now it is here.” He met Artorius’s eyes and added fiercely, “But I will not serve you. Not if it means my very death and the betrayal of all I have held dear.” 

Pinned by Emrys’s gaze, Artorius felt his breath come short and wondered if his blood could sense Emrys’s power, so close, so enticing. He wanted that power, he realized. He wanted to create beautiful, wondrous things with it. He wanted to bring Emrys delight in the making of such beauty.

Artorius had to clear his throat before he could speak. “And what if they did not speak of death, as you suppose? What if—?” He fell silent and tore his eyes from Emrys’s full mouth and strong arms.

Emrys did not reply, but he looked pensive and later, before retiring to bed, he put his hand on Artorius’s arm for a moment. A comforting pressure that Artorius felt long after he had gone.

*

The part of him that Emrys had awakened was easier now that they were together much of the time. Dreams no longer troubled him, and he did not wake in the middle of the night, thinking that Emrys was calling him.

Instead, he lay awake of his own accord, thinking of Emrys’s firm hands and how it would feel to have them touching his body. Uneasiness had been replaced with a voracious passion, and he longed to go to Emrys and plead with him to join their bodies, to kiss and pet and discover all the ways they could bring each other pleasure. He did not care that Emrys was a slave. He would get on his knees freely this time and offer his mouth, if it made Emrys agree.

Reason intruded, telling him how shameful such an act would be, how appalled his father would be if he ever found out. But dragons had little use for the customs of men, and Artorius knew now that he carried their fire in his blood. Only Emrys could quench what he had called into being.

*

That passion drove him to draw Leonidus aside on the morning of Marca’s dinner party, held in honor of his uncle, lately returned from Britannia. He had business in the city that day, but he returned late in the afternoon to collect Emrys. A very angry Emrys, who confronted him, eyes flashing and sparking with gold. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Emrys demanded and gestured at his body.

Artorius looked upon him appreciatively. Leonidus had gone above and beyond his duty, dressing Emrys in a tunic of fine blue wool, with a fibula of green jade pinned on his shoulder. A golden torque around his throat and golden bracelets on his arms made him look the part of the barbarian warrior. 

“I am not some whore,” Emrys spat, “to be bought with pretty things.”

“You cannot attend the dinner party tonight looking like a common slave.”

“What party?”

“My sister’s. All the senators shall be there, all of Rome’s finest citizens. Caesar himself.”

“And are you planning to show me off, like some trophy?” Emrys demanded, indignant.

“ _No_.” Artorius ushered Emrys out of the villa and bade him mount a horse. “You have already made a name for yourself in the arena. I wish to introduce you to my uncle and my father and suggest to them that you could be of great help in offering advice on the matter of Britannia. And I—I thought you might enjoy it,” he added, trying not to sound anxious. “Your wound is healed and you must get bored, sitting around here all day.”

“I would not say that, exactly,” Emrys muttered, but he followed Artorius to Marca’s residence without further protest. Marca was upon them at once, exclaiming over Emrys, showering him with praise, snatching him from Artorius’s grasp and introducing him to the other guests. Emrys looked flustered and gave Artorius a pleading glance, but he just smirked and went to find himself a cup of wine. 

He did relent at last, though, and collected Emrys from Marca, making sure that he sat beside him at the table. He was able to introduce him to his father and uncle as well, though Agricola could not hide the scorn in his eyes, and Caesar looked coldly indifferent. 

“They will come round,” Artorius said to Emrys when they had returned to his own villa and his own chambers, quiet and cool after the heat and noise of the party. 

“Perhaps.” Emrys leaned against the wall, watching as Artorius fumbled with his toga—he had drunk far too much, but he did not want to call one of his slaves to help him. He wanted Emrys to himself. He had not missed the way the eyes of some of the senators had lingered on Emrys’s body tonight, and it filled him with a hot jealousy.

“Is your uncle…trustworthy?” Emrys asked after a moment. 

“Agricola?” Artorius frowned, considering. “He is not overly fond of my father, perhaps, but he has served him faithfully these many years. Why?” He let his toga fall to the ground, and the cold air pebbled his naked skin.

Emrys sucked in a breath and looked away. “I do not trust him. I cannot say why. Only a feeling that you should beware of him.”

“He is the one who sentenced your people to death. I would not expect you to have a clear mind towards him.”

“No, that is not it. I think—” Emrys’s voice faded, for Artorius had drawn close to him. “Would you not like to put on some clothes?” 

“No.” Artorius put his hand on Emrys’s chest, and Emrys shuddered, closing his eyes. Artorius pressed closer, and he put his mouth to Emrys’s skin, right against the pulse point on his neck. 

“I have wanted you for so long,” he whispered. “Lie with me tonight. Please.” 

“You are drunk,” Emrys gritted, pushing at him half-heartedly.

He was drunk, but on more than wine. His fascination with Emrys had grown into this burning _need_ for him. “I want you.” Artorius’s lips roved over Emrys, finally settling on his mouth. “Every time you are near me, my blood sings.”

“Oh, little dragon,” Emrys whispered. And then he took control, his hands gripping Artorius’s shoulders, his mouth bruising. He grew no gentler in bed, but Artorius submitted, feeling no shame in it, glorying in the rush of pleasure, the knowledge that Emrys’s blood sang for him as well.

He was granted another of Emrys’s smiles, too, when they had both had their pleasure and lay tangled together, Emrys still wearing his golden torque and bracelets. 

“Perhaps your fate is not entirely bad,” Artorius murmured, and Emrys laughed, but then he became somber.

“Perhaps not.” He stroked Artorius’s face gently. “I did not realize that you would be like this.” He sighed and added quietly, “But now that I am healed, I must return to the arena.”

“You shall do nothing of the sort. I have had a letter from Publius Piso, and he has offered to give you to me. I will set you free, and you will be safe.”

But Emrys was not pleased, and he pulled away, scowling. “What do you mean by this? What do you mean, I shall be _given_ to you?” 

Hurt, Artorius said hesitantly, “It is only a matter of satisfying the law. You will be my freedman. You will no longer be a slave.”

“I will not be beholden to you!” Emrys exclaimed. “No more than I already am.”

“That is nonsense.” He tried to reach for Emrys again, but Emrys shook him off, reaching down to pick up his tunic. He dressed swiftly, and the embers of his anger kindled in his eyes when he turned around. 

“Don’t you understand? I am already yours— _all_ of me is yours. But I will be damned if I come to you as a slave, bought and paid for. I will come of my own free will or not at all.”

“You are mad. What does it matter how we come together? If it preserves you from death—”

“Do you wish to leave me with no honor?” Emrys demanded. 

“Of course not, but,” Artorius paused, desperately trying to find the words that would convince Emrys to be reasonable. “But if you should die, I—I would not be whole without you.”

Emrys sighed, the anger streaming from him, and he laid a soothing hand on Artorius’s shoulder, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I know, little dragon. I did not expect the bond to form so swiftly. I should never have used my power on you, for it awakened what had been better left to slumber.”

“Do not say that.” Artorius caught his hand. “Please. Let me free you.”

Emrys kissed his forehead. “I will win my freedom with my own strength and courage. Or I will go to an honorable death. I must hold on to something of what I was—I cannot forsake everything for you, little dragon.”

Artorius pleaded with him and then shouted and the morning dawned with both of them angry. 

They did not say farewell when Emrys was led back to the arena, but that night, Artorius found himself in the garden again, and he could hear Emrys calling for him.

*

He went to Emrys, of course. They stood in the cells, and Artorius held his hands. 

“Please, do not fight,” he said, but Emrys shook his head.

They said no more, only stood quietly with each other until it was time.

He could not watch the fight, and he waited outside, listening to the roaring crowd, stomach roiling until he was sick in the gutter. Then he stared unseeingly, his escort in a circle about him, until Leonidus returned with the news that Emrys had triumphed once more.

*

“I have heard…rumors,” Caesar said, and he looked at his son, brow furrowing. “That you are favoring a gladiator, one of the—” a cough racked his body, and Artorius bent to help him sit up, giving him a drink of the syrup the surgeon had left.

It was all he could do for his father, stricken with sickness a fortnight past. 

“They are only rumors, father,” he said quietly. He knew his father would never understand Emrys—it would only upset him, and he needed calm and rest if he was to get better. 

But he did not get better, and two days later, the word went round the city that the emperor was dead.

*

Artorius did not cry until Emrys was holding him that night.

“I am Caesar now,” he whispered, “and I am not ready. Not _ready_.”

“No man is ever ready for such a task.” Emrys smoothed a hand over his hair. “But you will devote yourself to your people, and that will be enough. And one day soon, I shall kneel and swear myself to you, and we will bring peace to all the lands.”

“There will be games in honor of my father.” Artorius tightened his arms around Emrys. “Tell me you will not fight.”

“One more victory will grant me my freedom.”

 _Or your death_ , Artorius thought, but did not say.

“Do you still fear my power, little dragon?” Emrys murmured, resting his palm against Artorius’s chest near his beating heart.

Artorius shook his head and laid his own hand over Emrys’s. “Do you still rail against your fate?”

“No.” Emrys smiled. “I am proud to be your servant, until the day I die.”

*

But that day was not this day. On this day the last bond holding Emrys fell away, and the sunlight broke upon the forging of a new one. 

[](http://s1181.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/media/rudis_final_zpse47a93ce.jpg.html)

**Author's Note:**

> Take a moment to go [here](http://amphigoury.livejournal.com/41456.html) (LJ) or [here](http://amphigoury-art.tumblr.com/post/47367302842/verbum-sat-sapienti-libertas-parta-click-for) (tumblr) and leave a comment for the artist!


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